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Is it Race? Why Don’t People Care What Happens in Compton?

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The cover of Mr. Bradley's autobiography.

Dateline Compton – It isn’t so much the ubiquity of dirty dealings in this town that is as arresting to a new eye as the openness of it, the widespread awareness of funny business that is met with shrugs.

Residents tell candidates they will not vote in the April 16 city election. “It won’t do any good.”

The previous mayor, Omar Bradley, did time in the Big House after leaving office on a corruption conviction later overturned on a technicality. The present mayor, smiling Eric Perrodin, a downtown assistant district attorney, was one of his numerous main enemies.  

Los Angeles and far-flung parts of the country seemed shocked by the city government scandal in Bell.

When contrasted, however, with the almost boastful barrels of corruption that are rolled through Compton’s sad looking streets – without notice – Bell resembles its fairly normal midget brother.

Why the tumult over Bell and none over Compton?

Is it because Bell, one-third the size of Compton (35,000), is mainly Hispanic?

Although Compton’s demographics are similar, the government players are black, and the community, historically, has been perceived as black, even though the population is down to 20 percent black.

Like a bad movie that refuses to end, both men are running for the mayor’s job in 12 days, along with 10 other contenders.

Do Angelenos care less about Compton for those two reasons?

Maybe.

I have been trying to gain a better understanding of Compton by wading through Mr. Bradley’s six-year-old autobiographical The King of Compton, The Assassination of a Dream, 481 angry, large-type pages, propelled by the filthiest language available in English.

Every page starts with “f.”

Here is an attempt to convey the flavor of Compton.

Sample 1:

“I was beginning to understand that Compton’s most powerful criminal element operated within the confines of the Compton Police Dept. This was why the city could never mend. Undaunted by the articles, editorials and commentary, I held fast to the principles for which I took my oath. However, my insistence to get to the bottom of the police department’s mess was about to take my life in a different direction.

“One morning (my wife) Robin’s screams shocked the entire household. She found the body of a decapitated bird lying on our porch. It was the first death threat to come to my home. The others were sent to my office. The event would repeat itself, and in many different forms. My tires were slashed. My convertible top was slashed. My photograph was mailed to me in a white envelope. Slashed. Strange phone calls came to my home every night, warning me to slow down. Then someone called and said, ‘We’ll kill your first-born.’ I wanted to leap through the phone and commit murder. I sure as hell couldn’t call the police. I just had to hold on until the investigation was over…”

Sample 2:

“I was riding around Compton with so many guns in my car that if I had wrecked, my Lincoln would have exploded. I was packing a .357 magnum, a .32 automatic, a .38 revolver, a .25 automatic pistol and a shotgun. I had determined that if the cops were going to take me out, somebody was going with me. I was also on the lookout for what I knew would come next, a sting operation inspired by Taylor’s and Perrodin’s friends at the DA or the FBI. It was clear that some of them were tied up in the dope scandal. Nobody could move all that dope without some help. I was right…”

Sample 3:

“The very next evening, I began to get prank phone calls from a voice that shielded its identity by making it high-pitched. But I’d heard this voice before. It sounded like Deputy Dist. Atty. Eric Perrodin, Capt. Perrodin’s baby brother. Perrodin and I had almost come to blows once in a nightclub. He was overheard saying ugly things about my family and me. I didn’t take that – . When I entered the nightclub, Perrodin, a former Compton police officer, was there in uniform with three other Compton cops. You should have seen the look on his face when I called him a b—-,  and threatened to whip his – .He stood there looking like a girl…”

(To be continued)